


The Desperate Things (You Made Me Do)

by spirograph



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Multi, OT4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-25
Updated: 2007-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a road trip to Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Desperate Things (You Made Me Do)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song of the same name by The Magnetic Fields.

Two weeks into summer break Kyle wakes up sweat-sticky beneath his blankets and realizes that he’s not really on holiday at all. High school is officially over and he’s slept enough to make up for all the early morning wakeup calls. For the nights spent doing last minute homework assignments and cramming for exams. This is the start of the rest of his life and Stan keeps sending him emails to say how crazy his family is making him. Telling him that Shelly being home from collage is the worst thing in the _whole world_ and seriously, they need to find something fun to do. Something that doesn’t involve going to the fucking arcade again just to watch Cartman beat their asses at Pac man. 

They’ve already seen every movie showing at the cinema and, well, maybe they burnt out all the possibilities to fast, because Cartman knocks on his door on a bright, blue-skied Saturday afternoon wearing a faded Terrence and Phillip t-shirt and a painfully bored expression. “Kyle,” he says, grabbing at the front of Kyle’s shirt dramatically, “you need to entertain me.” Kyle honestly has no idea what to do. In the end they wind up at the arcade. Stan glaring angrily down at his soda while Cartman laughs maniacally at his new, personal best, ass-kicking high score. 

Bebe has a party on a Friday, although someone could have told Kyle it was a Wednesday and he would have believed it. All the days blur into one. The four of them sit side by side on Bebe’s living room couch, taking slow, calculated sips from the beer that uncle Jimbo bought them at the liquor store. Kyle watches Stan watching Wendy and wishes he knew how Stan felt. They’ve been at this thing for years and nothing’s ever really happened (drunkenly making out and pretending it never happened the next day doesn’t count, regardless of how many times it’s been done.) 

Bebe tries to crawl all over him, perching herself on his thighs and laughing obnoxiously at the dirty jokes that Cartman keeps on telling. They’re not even funny and Kyle’s pretty sure he’s heard them all before. But then he’s laughing as well, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of Bebe’s body, trying subtly to make _we need to leave_ eyes at Kenny – who is slumped against him and practically comatose. 

Later, with an arm around Kyle’s shoulder, Cartman says he’s never seen anyone look so grossed-out by a girl before. Kyle tells them that he isn’t like Kenny, he’s not going to fuck her just because she’s _there._ Kenny drunkenly swears that he has standards and from behind them Stan just laughs. 

Two nights later they’re all together again, sitting in Cartman’s basement sculling back dark shots of whiskey, bemoaning the serious lack of entertainment that South Park has to offer. 

“We should take a fucking road trip,” Stan slurs, re-filling his glass, spilling alcohol on the table top. 

“Yeah,” Cartman says excitedly. “Let’s go to Wyoming. We can find Kyle a boyfriend.” 

Kenny sniggers and Kyle punches him in the arm, sending sticky liquid overflowing all over his hand. Kyle watches mesmerized as Kenny slowly licks his fingers clean.

“Vegas,” Stan announces, “I think we should go to Vegas.” Stan’s always had a thing for Vegas. Ever since his parents took him there in the 6th grade. _They left me alone in the hotel room,_ he told them the day he got home. _I could see all of the lights out the window. I stayed awake all night and watched the city glow._

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, Stan. Let’s go to Vegas and _not gamble._ ” Cartman rolls his eyes, arms behind his head as he leans back against the couch. Kyle knows for sure that Cartman wouldn’t gamble, anyway, even if he were old enough. “Besides, I’m fucking broke.” 

They’re all broke, and Kyle doesn’t know how well a trip to the city of sin would sit with his parents. But the look on Stan’s face is desperate, eyes cast downward. Looking at the memory stained carpet like somebody who’s just been denied their dying wish. Kyle tries not to think about the university acceptance letters pinned up on the fridge at home. It’s only a matter of time before he has to start making choices. He wonders if Stan is thinking the same thing. “Sweet,” Kyle says, prying the whiskey bottle out from between Kenny’s hands, “Let’s do it.” 

Stan’s face softens into a smile and Kenny mumbles and unenthusiastic _yay_ around his glass.

Glancing around to find all eyes zeroed expectantly in on him Cartman sighs in defeat. “Fine,” he says, snatching the bottle and refilling his glass, “as long as I don’t have to share a bed with Kyle.”

 

//

 

They decide, in the end, that all they can really afford is a couple of days away. Which is fine by Kyle; he’s the only one legally allowed to drive them all there. The day before they leave he buys a cheap map from the store and spreads it out on his desk. He draws a red sharpie line up through Frisco, past Dillon Reservoir and onto the Interstate-70. He carries the line along the highway and wonders if they’ll have killed each other by the time they reach Utah. 

Stan knocks on his bedroom door as the line reaches Interstate-15. Flopping down on Kyle’s bed he says that he’s so excited: _he can’t wait to get the fuck out of this stupid town._ They talk about what might happen when they get there, but not what will happen when they get back home. Stan’s excitement is contagious, despite the heavy, twisty feeling in Kyle’s gut, and it’s not long before he finds himself getting worked up. And it’s silly, he supposes, because they’re not really going that far. They’ll end up fighting over something stupid and will probably hate each other for most of the trip. But Kyle grins when Stan tells him about the gleaming cityscape all over again, picturing it in his head and nodding as if it’s the first time he’s ever been told.

When he goes to sleep he dreams about it: bright colours all around lighting them up, making their skin shine like they’re glowing from the inside. Like there’s nothing else in the whole world but Kyle and his three best friends, side by side and blazing like orange neon fire in the dark. 

//

They’re less than an hour out of Fairplay when Cartman wants to stop the first time, digging his wallet out of his back pocket and racing toward the convenience store without bothering to ask if anyone else is hungry. Stan rifles through his bag and finds his camera. He gets out of the car and starts to make his way up the small rise behind them, toward the end of the shops. 

Cartman comes back with an enormous bag of potato chips and an equally enormous bottle of soda that he refuses to share. “You should have gotten off your ass,” he tells Kenny, slapping his hand away when he makes a grab for the drink. Kyle turns the stereo up to drown out their fighting, to block out the sound of Cartman yelling up the road for Stan to hurry the hell up. He locks eyes with Stan in the rearview mirror once they’re moving again, as they’re pulling out onto the Interstate. He can see distance glittering in Stan’s eyes. “This music fucking sucks,” Cartman says, fiddling with the buttons on the cd player. Kyle shifts his gaze back to the road.

They have to pull off again at Eagle, and then New Castle so Cartman can buy more to drinks, saying being stuck in a car full of losers is dehydrating. The conversation is _just that dry._

By the time they hit Grand Junction Kenny is begging to be put out of his misery, saying he’d rather drown in the fucking river than spend another eight hours in the car with Cartman. They buy lunch at McDonalds, because that’s what Cartman wants to eat, and no one can be bothered to argue with him. He super-sizes and won’t share his fries when the others have finished their own. Prolonging every chew until Stan makes a noise like he can’t stand it anymore and leaves. Kyle finds him later, sitting on a park bench, flicking through photographs on his digital camera. 

“I told Cartman the next stop was Utah and he freaked out,” Kyle says, putting his hands inside his hoodie pockets, resting them on his stomach. “He’s taken Kenny to buy more food, just incase we get kidnapped by Mormons.” 

Stan laughs, weakly, hits the off switch. “Sometimes,” he begins, then looks away, toward the highway. “Sometimes I fucking hate him.” He voice sounds strange on the wind

Kyle nods and tries not to focus too hard on the way Stan’s face crumples, squints his eyes against the sunlight until the lines on his face are deep. “He’s a bit of a douche bag, yeah.” 

They sit in silence, watching the cars drift past. It’s busier than South Park, but not by much. Kyle wonders where everybody is going. He wonders who else is trying to escape, if what they’re running from is worse than having to grow up. 

By the time they get to Green River Kyle can’t be bothered driving anymore. He feels as if highway dust is caked onto every exposed part of his skin, thick layers weighing him down. He sighs, and his throat feels rough like gravel.

“Ladies first,” Cartman says, waving Kyle through the sliding convenience store doors. Stan goes straight for the drinks fridge, opens the door and tries to put his head in as far as possible, angling his face better toward the cooling fans. Kyle stands beside him and rolls a can of sprite back and forth over his forehead, across curls sticky with sweat and matted to his skin. When they make their way to the counter to pay Kenny’s standing by the magazine rack, staring up at the porno on the top shelf. 

“Pervert,” Kyle says, just as Kenny reaches up and makes a grab for something particularly glossy and plastic wrapped. 

“He buys them from the _articles,_ ” Stan says sarcastically, pocketing his change. They pull back onto the highway to the sound of crinkling plastic. 

In the rearview mirror Kyle watches Kenny flip pages, squint like he’s actually reading. Stan leans across the seat, rests his head on Kenny’s shoulder as he tips the whole magazine sideways. They whisper in unison: “ _Nice._ ”

Then there’s nothing but desert stretching out for miles and miles in each direction. The magazine gets passed on to Cartman and the pages rustle loudly in the breeze. Kenny falls asleep with his hood pulled up to cover his face despite the heat, despite the afternoon sunlight pouring through the open window and making everything look like gold. Stan rests his temple against the sliver of unopened window beside him, breathes out onto patches of glass and draws pictures in the condensation. The radio sounds get mixed up with the noise of the tires turning against the road and the horizon shimmers with mirage, blends effortlessly into the sky. 

Cartman pulls the map out, tracing lines with his finger, and tells Kyle that he’s going the wrong fucking way, even though there isn’t really any other way to go. “You’re driving too slowly,” he whines, “we’re never going to get there.”

Kyle inhales, counts to ten, grips a little harder onto the wheel. “If we never get there it’s because you want to stop at every. Single. Goddamn gas station we pass.” 

Stan snorts out a laugh, all of their words evaporating into the humid air. Cartman stuffs the map back into the glove compartment, crosses his arms petulantly over his chest. 

Kyle listens to the precious sound of no one talking until Stan suddenly says, “Stop,” swiveling around in his seat, “stop, Kyle, fucking stop the car.” The wheels grind to a halt on the side of the dusty road. When the doors are opened the heat is stifling, hanging heavy in the air without momentum to turn it into something more like a breeze. 

“I’ve got dirt in my fucking eyes,” Cartman complains, scuffing his foot against a pile of tiny rocks. “Why’d we stop? There’s nothing here.”

Kenny doesn’t get out of the car, just hangs his legs out of the door and toes the asphalt. Stan wanders away from them, keeps walking until he’s just a dot in the middle of a field full of dried up tussocks and dirt and dirt and dirt. Kyle follows after a bit, more because Cartman’s gearing himself up to have a total hissy fit rather than because he’s curious. Kenny flops down on his back and sighs.

By the time Kyle gets to him, Stan’s sitting down throwing stones at nothing. There are clouds hanging above the mountains ahead, mostly white with threatening flecks of gray all through. Kyle hopes it doesn’t rain; he wants to see Las Vegas in the light. 

“What if it’s not like I remember,” Stan whispers, fiddling with the lens of his camera. “What if we get there and it’s just,” he twists the focus all the way around, extends it, “a stupid city full of dirty hookers and old men with drinking problems.” 

Kyle laughs, looks back over his shoulder toward the car. Cartman’s leaning his hip against the bonnet, arms crossed, staring right back. “It is just a stupid city full of dirty hookers, Stan.” His skin tingles where the sunshine falls against it. 

Stan holds the viewfinder up to his eye, twists the focus again. “I remember it differently.” Click. Kyle tries to see what Stan is seeing, squinting into the distance. The camera clicks again. “That was a good one,” Stan says, holding the LCD up so Kyle can have a look.

From where he’s standing the angle is all wrong, the light is too bright. All he can see are silhouettes and patches of silvery colour, the sort-of outline of his hair. He doesn’t really give a shit. “Cool.” 

There is desert silence, the kind that sounds like whispers and like wind, like they’re in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. A vulture soars overhead and Kyle thinks of Kenny. Stan tugs at his jeans, then, holds his hand out for him to take it, to pull him up. 

Back at the car Cartman says, “Thank God you’re back. I think I’ve forgotten what trees look like.” Stan rolls his eyes and shakes his head, nudges at Kenny’s knee with his own. “He fell asleep.” Cartman opens the passenger side door and slides into the seat. Kenny’s eyes move beneath his lids, his fingers twitch where they’re resting against his stomach. Stan nudges him again, crawls awkwardly into the car, his ass barely on the seat. 

Cartman moves around, gets up on his knees, and yells, “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” Kenny’s eyes snap open. 

The car shudders when Kyle turns the key in the ignition, puts her into gear. The doors slam shut and Cartman fishes another candy bar out of the glove compartment. In the rearview mirror he watches Kenny’s eyes drift shut again, forehead resting against the faded upholstery. Behind them the dust cloud dissipates. 

The sun is setting by the time they reach Vegas, dusk light bouncing off of fluorescent casing as the bulbs inside stutter to life. The motel has the smallest mini golf course Kyle has ever seen, right in the middle of the car park. Stan grabs the room keys from the office, leaving the others to discuss who will share with who, the decision made when Stan returns and; 

“Bags not sharing with Kyle!” Cartman hollers, grabbing a key from Stan’s hand and racing for the farther of the two rooms, flinging himself through the door.

Kenny sighs, swearing under his breath. “He’s probably just gay for you, that’s why he doesn’t want to share a bed.” Kyle laughs, but he also feels a little bit sick, shutting his eyes against the world when Cartman pokes his head around the corner to flip Kenny off. 

They eat Chinese takeaways in Stan and Kyle’s room, slurping noodles and jabbing each other with chopsticks. It begins to rain, and Kenny starts to laugh, dragging them all outside. Then he’s running out of the motel office door with the hood of his coat pulled up over his head, three stupidly tiny, plastic golf clubs in his hand. “The guy said they’re for kids,” he says, handing one to each of them. 

From the safety of the sheltered balcony running all the way around the complex, Cartman tells them they’re all lame, tells them he won’t care if they die from the cold. Kyle thinks the rain feels warm, tickling where it soaks into his shirt, droplets sliding slow, and then fast, right down the center of his back. Stan lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of Kenny crouched low to the ground, gripping the bright purple handle of his club and putting golf balls over saturated Astroturf. The rain get stronger and Stan tries to block Kenny’s way, calling out through the roar, “That’s not fair, that’s not _fair_.” 

Kenny slips, falls on his ass in a fast spreading puddle. Above them, Cartman leans heavily against the rusted railing with his chin resting on his palm, watching unimpressed as the chaos unfolds. Kyle laughs, standing under a tree which doesn’t protect him from the rain at all, water making trails down his cheeks. Stan stumbles forward, trying to find his footing on the slippery ground, reaching out a hand to help Kenny up. In a flurry of movement Kenny yanks Stan arm toward him, pulls him down so they’re just a tangled blur of limbs made hazy by the rainfall. It’s so dark, despite the dazzling glow that hovers just above them, light reflecting off the bleak grey of the clouds, dark green of the trees blending with the black of the sky;

And the motel walls must be thin, because Kyle can hear Kenny still laughing in the next room soon after, swearing, being told by Cartman that he’s an idiot. Whir of shower faucets coming to life competes with the sound of the kettle on the countertop, and when Stan emerges from the bathroom his skin is flushed bright pink. Towel hanging around his shoulders to catch drips from his hair, he peeps out through the curtains, toward bright lights veiled in rain spray. He says he thinks he can see a chapel, neon red heart pulsing in time with his own. There is a thud next door, the murmur of voices. 

“Maybe the rain will clear up tomorrow,” Kyle says, deciding the hot drink selection on the countertop totally sucks, abandoning hot water and tiny paper packets for a glass of milk. 

Stan moves away from the window, sits on the edge of the bed, fingers picking at stray threads coming loose from the quilted floral comforter. “It doesn’t really matter.” And Kyle imagines the vast, empty desert: swollen clouds with dirty silver lining – _rainmaker, rainmaker_ – and wonders if it’s pouring there, too.

Kenny and Cartman burst into the room, mostly dry, clutching alcohol bottles poorly disguised in brown paper bags. The four of them sit in a circle on the floor and have vodka shots from dodgy looking glasses, whiskey shots from equally dodgy coffee cups. For a while, Kyle’s mouth still tastes vaguely like milk. The rain pelts against the roof, static drumbeat that Kyle can feel inside his chest more clearly with every drink he takes. Kenny says they should play truth or dare, and he’s got that look in his eye, the one he always gets when he’s suggesting they do something that will end badly.

Kyle has to jog the length of the motel in just his boxer shorts, waving to anyone who might notice, and Kenny has to putt golf balls in just a towel, because it’s funny to be naked, to be laughed at by strangers safe and warm in their rooms. Cartman has to tell the truth about all of the girls that he’s made out with - he lies – and Stan’s face takes on a slight green tinge when he’s made to confess if he’s ever considered kissing a guy (that would be a _yes_ , then.)

Which makes it Kyle’s turn to be truth-or-dared, and Kenny’s got a grin on his face like he’s just won the fucking lottery. “Kyle,” he says, slowly, “I dare you to make out with Stan.” It’s one of those laughable dares that gets made at a 8th grade party full of giggling girls, and boys that still don’t know their drinking limit, puking into the bushes just outside, onto someone’s parents prized flower bed. “Unless you’re like, chickenshit.”

And isn’t that always the kicker, the winning punch. Kyle shrugs despite the bubbling nervousness in his stomach, thinks about the time they shared a bed, the time he woke up with Stan’s arm around his waist. That tiny space and all that heat. Cartman takes a breath and Kyle never hears him let it out. Stan kisses the way that he looks just before they both lean in; anxious and uncertain. His fingers dig into Kyle’s thighs, creating violent creases in the fabric of his jeans, leaving bruises beneath, he can feel it. It’s not meant to go on for as long as it does- Kyle’s aware of the rules –but he slips his tongue into Stan’s mouth – an accident, by accident -and the other boy doesn’t pull away. When they part Stan swallows so hard Kyle’s afraid he might be gulping back the desire to throw up. Stan says, “Kenny,” then swallows again, “make out with Kyle. I _dare_ you.”

Then Kenny’s crawling forward, whispering _Fuck yeah_ just loud enough to hear, curling his fingers around the back of Kyle’s neck, drawing him closer and nudging Stan out of the way like Kyle’s just going to say it’s okay. He immediately wonders if they’ll wake up in the morning and blame it on the alcohol, or pretend that it never happened at all. Stan’s pretty much perfected the art of denial. Maybe it’s Vegas, and there’s something in the air. Maybe this is just an inevitable step in a latticework friendship that has lasted for so long. He can’t imagine Craig and his stupid friends doing this.

Kyle waits for Cartman to say something, to get angry and tell them that he’s not going to share a room with fags. Kenny moves away, leans down, and the room is quiet apart from the sound of him lightly sucking on Kyle’s neck; Stan’s breathing shocked and shallow nearby. Kenny’s teeth graze Kyle’s skin, just below his ear, and Kyle doesn’t mean to make the sound that he does, it just sort of slips out, low and throaty and unlike anything he’s ever heard come out of his own mouth before. 

Head lolling sideways, he doesn’t know where to look. He ends up staring straight at Stan. Stan, with his lips parted and eyes glazed, hand still clutching Kyle’s thigh, gripping harder and harder still. Under Kyle’s hands Kenny’s clothes feel strange, bulky like a wall standing between them. That same sound escapes from his mouth again, louder, and Stan’s fingers flex against his thigh, start to move, but not away. 

“Hey,” Kenny whispers, looking sideways at Cartman, grinning like it’s all still a game. _It’s your turn_ isn’t spoken, but implied by the way Kenny raises his eyebrows, looks pointedly between them. Kyle wants to laugh, he wants to say that this has been a funny joke but it’s over now, because Eric Cartman doesn’t make out with Jews, or boys. Or anyone, actually, because the only person that he even remotely likes is himself. Only a moment later Cartman’s fingers are gripping Kyle’s hair tightly and he’s tugging at clumps of curls hard enough to hurt. And if Kyle had ever thought about the way that Cartman would kiss, he would have imagined it just like this: rough and greedy, forcing Kyle’s mouth open and swiping his tongue along the roof of his mouth, holding him in place with large, unyielding hands. 

It surprises him that Kenny didn’t even need to make chicken noises or pretend to be flapping his wings to egg Cartman on. Then he realizes that Eric was probably right all along, Kyle must be pretty damn gay, because kissing Eric fucking Cartman is a million times better than that time he made out with Bebe at Token’s stupid ghetto bro’s & hoes party. Infinitely hotter than the time Wendy cornered him in the shadowy part of the gym with all the equipment and tried to make him feel her up. 

Cartman groans and it shakes Kyle’s entire body, vibrates through his mouth and down his throat, settles at the bottom of his stomach and _burns._ Kenny starts to worry the bottom of Kyle’s shirt between his fingers and, when Kyle finally pulls back, Cartman pants harsh, stuttering breaths against his lips.

It’s hard to believe that it’s really happening. Kyle keeps expecting one of them to laugh aloud, say that he’s so snapped for being a total fag. The room is suddenly far too hot and Stan’s lips are unexpectedly soft where they press against Kyle’s cheek, wet and drunken, stinking like sweet liquor. Kenny continues to fiddle with Kyle’s shirt, looking down at a stray thread hanging from the hem like he’s waiting for some sort of sign, something to tell him what to do next. 

Kyle’s mouth is moving before he really wants it too, saying, _You guys should make out,_ only the words are jumbled and out of place, cracked like he’s choking on his own voice. He glances back and forth between Kenny and Stan, waiting for one of them to protest. When their lips meet Kyle’s surprised. They don’t look clumsy or amateur like he feels; they look weirdly as if they fit together.

And maybe he’s just really, really stupidly drunk, but right there, in that moment, he loves them all so much it feels as though his heart is going to burst out of his chest, saturate them all with just how much he needs them all to stay together, like this, forever. He feels like there are bricks on his chest, heavy weights crushing his ribcage, his lungs. It’s so hard to breathe. 

Then there’s a hand slipping up under his shirt, skin against skin tickling slightly as Cartman runs his hand over the slight jut of his hipbone, ascending, fingertips demanding as they slide up over his back, across his shoulders blades. Kyle’s mouth is dry, he’s been breathing so hard. Stan gasps against Kenny, arm shooting sideways to grip onto Kyle’s shoulder to steady himself. Kyle thinks if they don’t turn on the air conditioning soon he’s going to suffocate. His heart beats sickeningly fast, eyes locked on the sight of Kenny’s lips moving against Stan’s, flash of tongue and teeth. Stan’s knuckles are white where they’re holding fast to the arm of the other boy’s jacket. Kyle wants to say stop, wants desperately for everything to slow the hell down. He’s so dizzy, so drunk, and Cartman’s tongue feels like a trail of fire when he drags it along the length of Kyle’s jaw, up over the shell of his ear. He wonders briefly if he’s the only one whose jeans are getting painfully tight, arches upward as Cartman’s other hand finds its way beneath his tee, faltering slightly when he fingers brush against the waist of Kyle’s jeans. 

When Kyle opens his eyes - unsure when they’d fallen closed - Stan and Kenny have stilled and are watching Cartman’s hand as it moves, traveling down over Kyle’s thigh, curving fingers inward, squeezing lightly and;

Kyle’s head falls back against the end of the bed as his legs fall open. “Fuck,” Cartman sighs, “you’re so easy.” Kyle can’t even find the breath to respond. 

He reaches blindly for Stan but finds Kenny instead. Kenny grabs a hold of his hand and licks at his fingers, sucks them into his mouth, smiles and hums, tongue swirling wetly over his fingertips until Kyle’s certain that. Yeah, he’s hyperventilating. Clutching Cartman’s shirt and pulling him forward, trying to capture his mouth but missing entirely. Gracelessly pressing his lips to Cartman’s chin. He’s going insane, and that’s got to be the only explanation for this. For Kenny finally – finally – taking a firm hold of Kyle’s shirt and pulling it up over his head, for two sets of lips attacking his chest, a third whispering, so softly, _Dude, I can’t believe this is happening._

And maybe what happens next is so hot because they hate each other so intensely - because they’ve been at war for as long as any of them can remember. When Cartman tells Stan to suck it up and grabs him by the front of his sweater, pulls him forward into a kiss - moans like he’s never really wanted anything more. And even kissing they look like they’re fighting, Stan’s eyes scrunched up like he’s angry, like he’s hating every second of it. But he doesn’t pull away – he threads skinny fingers through Cartman’s hair and opens his mouth a little wider. 

Kenny says something: words that Kyle can’t understand spoken that close to his own skin, so close to his heartbeat that is pounding so loud he’s amazed he can hear anything else. Then he’s reaching for Kenny’s jeans, unable to stop himself, wondering if he should look up, look him in the eye and plead for a sign that he’s going too far.

Kenny shuffles closer, bats Kyle’s hands away and unfastens the belt himself. Pops the top button of his jeans and bends down to press their lips together again, taking Kyle’s hand in his own and leading it back to his waist, to muscles that are flexing and contracting, seemingly drawn toward his touch. 

“Holy shit,” he hears Stan say, breathless, and when Kyle tilts his head he expects a fist to connect with his face, for a look of disgust; something to spoil the moment and put a halt to whatever the hell has suddenly, drastically, gone wrong in their heads. Instead he sees Stan sprawled in an inelegant straddle over Cartman’s thighs. Their bodies pressed close, Cartman’s hand shoved deep down the back of Stan’s jeans, guiding him near.

“Bed,” Kenny huffs, standing and tugging at his sweater quickly, like he can’t get it off of his body fast enough. Waiting until Kyle is moving to follow before he lets his jeans fall to the floor. 

“Are we really…” Kyle begins, interrupted by two forceful hands connecting flat with his chest, pushing him backward. Those same hands are then reaching for his jeans a moment later, pulling them away from his body. Kyle shivers, but he sure as fuck isn’t cold, struggling to will his body to move, to scramble further backward onto the bed. He’s close enough to the edge that he can swipe down at Cartman’s head, make a grab at his hair to try and get him to budge. Stan’s cheeks are flushed, Kyle can see him over Cartman’s shoulder; head tilted back, long line of his neck exposed. 

The whole room shudders, or maybe the bed is just unstable. Kenny crawls up and across Kyle’s body, crouches and slides his knee between Kyle’s thighs. His mouth is cold, tongue tasting strongly of whiskey, licking ruthlessly at the inside of Kyle’s mouth, demanding. Kyle’s not really sure what he’s supposed to be doing, sliding his palm down over the contour of Kenny’s stomach again, hardly a novice at this kind of thing – the kind of thing that Kenny’s known for at their school. “It’s just like,” Kenny moves forward encouragingly, “it’s just like doing it to yourself. Just at a different angle.” And Kyle gets that, feels sort of okay about it, using one hand to pull Kenny’s boxers away from his skin while the other slides inside and takes hold of his dick. 

“Fuck,” Kenny groans. Wet lips against Kyle’s shoulder. Louder again when Kyle gets the hang of it, gripping a little tighter, making easy strokes. All he can see is the ceiling, mottled stucco surrounding a crude light fixture and the curve of Kenny’s shoulder. He can feel Kenny’s body shaking, arms getting weak from trying to hold himself up, trying to keep himself steady, palms flat, on a flimsy mattress. The sound of Stan’s voice makes Kyle still the movement of his hand. It makes Kenny swear, hand gripping onto Kyle’s arm to try and urge him to keep going. 

“Stan,” Kyle says, unable to formulate any kind of sentence to follow. There’s a flurry of movement, of bodies sliding against bodies and shifting. Kenny rolls sideways, and Kyle doesn’t care who it is as long as somebody touches him again. Only in the end it’s Cartman, still so silent, without any hint of an insult on his lips. 

He can feel Stan’s hand grabbing hold of his own, firmly, squeezing as Cartman presses messy kisses all over Kyle’s chest, tongue dipping down into his bellybutton, fingers hooking over the elastic of his boxers. He’s not prepared. Even if someone had warned him, Kyle would never be prepared for this; for absolute nakedness and someone else’s hands on his thighs, thumbs pressing hard against his tender flesh and easing his legs apart. He’s hard, but he’s known that since this whole thing began. Now the others will know it too. He feels sort of stupid, kind of like he really needs another glass of whatever’s left in the bottle by the foot of the bed. 

Stan’s hand uncurls from around his own, and from the corner of his eye he watches it become lost amongst the mess of Kenny’s hair, hears them both sigh wetly into each others mouths. And maybe this trip isn’t really about Stan re-visiting Vegas, reliving whatever it was that he’d felt that one time. Maybe it’s more about being away from home, away from their families and the memories, that nagging feeling like things are going to change, because after High School everything changes. Kyle feels it like a dull throb just below his ribs, like something is curled up in there, something that had been kept so safe and so hidden until now. 

“Eric,” he says, and the name sounds weird on his lips. He’s never wanted to be at peace with him, with such a condescending and unrepentantly arrogant jerk, but he’s desperate to say something, to apologise for having done nothing wrong at all. The words get lodged in his throat, caught by the sudden shock of hot, wet heat wrapped around his cock. It’s like a fuse blowing inside his brain. Yeah, this kind of makes a lot of sense and Kyle can’t focus on much else but the feel of Cartman’s mouth sliding up and down over him and, god, he really doesn’t want to come yet, but Kenny is making noises that sound exactly the way that Kyle feels: like his muscles are pulled taut and twisted, like he’s about to fall apart. Without even thinking he’s arching up off the bed, grabbing handfuls of duvet in his hands, so close to breaking the fuck down for no reason other than this is Cartman, and this is probably the closest thing to an apology Kyle is ever going to get. 

And maybe he’ll taste like he’s sorry afterward, because they never talk about how they feel and he’ll never hear the words out loud. But then Kyle is coming, hard, swearing damn loudly, too, and Stan is grabbing onto his hand, over his clenched fist. He can hardly catch his breath before Cartman is kissing him. He doesn’t taste like an apology, only bitter like come and alcohol, urgently flicking his tongue against Kyle’s teeth, pushing his erection against Kyle’s side. Kenny whimpers a string of nonsensical words and Stan tells him _it’s okay, it’s okay._

“Touch me,” Cartman says, and his voice is strained, looking down at Kyle with thick strands of hair hanging over his eyes. Kyle breathes deeply, feels the bed shake again, watches as Stan’s hand creeps over the makeshift wall of Cartman’s body, down over the swell of his belly. Cartman leans backward until he’s supine, looking up at Stan whose leg slides easily over Cartman’s body, tips of his toes pressing ever-so-softly against the top of Kyle’s thigh. 

Kyle doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as amazing as this: Stan’s hand finding the curve of Cartman’s face, palm slotted against his jaw, and Cartman, in turn, staying silent. They kiss, and suddenly they seem to remember who they are, he can see Stan’s teeth bite down on Cartman’s lip, the brutal way that Cartman retaliates with fingers tangled in Stan’s hair, gripping and pulling until the other boy gasps. Kyle doesn’t want to miss any of it, dragging his nails along the ridge of Cartman’s exposed hip, the only place where his skin is really showing, raised red lines following soon after. 

He doesn’t know why they want this, why Stan’s fingers are working frantically at the fastenings of Cartman’s trousers. A day ago they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. Stan must get his hand inside Cartman’s pants, then, because he swears, brokenly, swears to God that he’s going to punch Stan in the face if he ever stops. Stan looks even more determined, shifting and angling himself, getting up on his knees. 

Kenny’s lying on his side behind them, holding himself up on his elbow and grinning, idly running his index finger along the length of Stan’s calf. Kyle doesn’t feel awake, doesn’t feel anything even close to grounded in reality; and when he reaches down behind himself his fingers wrap around the forgotten whiskey bottle. Just like he’d hoped it’s still plenty full. Kenny holds out his hand, wiggles his fingers; snatches the bottle away from him as his mouthful of liquor scorches a path down his throat. 

When Kenny finally stops swigging and holds the rim to Stan’s lips, Kyle wonders why they’ve avoided this for so long, dark liquid spilling out over Stan’s lips and onto the bed, dripping from his chin and onto Cartman’s t-shirted chest. Hand hardly steady at all, Cartman reaches up and runs his thumb over Stan’s bottom lip, shivers noticeably when Stan sucks it into his mouth. 

Then Cartman groans, dropping his hand away from Stan’s face, grabbing onto his thigh instead. Kyle has to see this, resting his cheek against the softness of Cartman’s arm –the way that Stan wrings the pleasure out of him, the way that Cartman scrunches up his face as if he’s trying hard to fight it. Kyle can feel Cartman’s body tremble with every stroke, with every twist of Stan’s wrist. There’s no word that Kyle has ever heard, or is ever likely to hear, that could be used to describe the sound that Eric makes when he comes. Kyle thinks he sounds a bit like he’s finally – rightfully - thanking God. Stan makes a face at his sticky hand, holding it away from his body and Kenny sniggers. Cartman just laughs and laughs between short, wheezing breaths. 

//

Kyle’s half asleep -probably still drunk by the way the world spins behind his lids - and Kenny’s whispering something nearby, softly laughing at Stan’s reply. He feels so good, like he’s buried beneath a sea of warmth. He wants desperately to go back to sleep, to hold onto that feeling for a little bit longer;

He opens his eyes to lamplight and two pairs of eyes looking down at him, a third pair blinking against the glare of the other two’s smiles. Under the blankets the hair of Cartman’s leg tickles Kyle’s thigh where they’re pressed together.

“Um,” Kyle says, only his voice is barely even audible. From where Kenny’s sitting above the covers he holds his index finger up to his mouth, “ _Shhh._ ” 

Through thin yellowed curtains Kyle can see the bright light fairytale of Vegas. It’s still raining, thrumming off-tempo heartbeats all around their tiny, stuffy room. Stan’s face is shadowed but he’s smiling, dark red love-bite flaring against the pale skin of his throat. Kyle looks at them all in turn, wondering when the awkwardness is going to set in – because it will, eventually. He’s pretty sure they can work through it, though. Prevail, or whatever the fuck it’s called when people don’t let drunken shit ruin their lives. And he’s about to say something really prolific about how they can get through this – _hideous, hideous mistake_ – when Kenny learns forward and kisses Stan all over again. 

Breath hot against Kyle’s shoulder, Cartman says, “Fags.” Except it’s not tinged with cruelty the way it usually is, and Kyle knows that when they get back home Stan will probably – finally – ask Wendy out and fill up his camera with pictures of her smile. Kenny will fuck Bebe (because she’s _there_ , and he can.) And Kyle will pick the university farthest away from all of them, because if he’s going to miserable and alone he may as well do it right.

And when Kyle squints against the light his friends all become blurry-silhouettes cast in dull, naked-bulb glow. Almost like they’re shining from the inside, but not quite. It is like a dream, though, distorted and surreal. Cartman’s hand sliding deftly over his body beneath the covers. Kyle hopes they stay that way in his mind forever, his three best friends blazing brightly like the Vegas strip in the dark. Imperfect, and unchanging. 

Kyle sighs.

Everything always changes.


End file.
